The Alexander Cipher

by Will Adams

  Ibrahim and Elena went down onto their knees to shine their lights beneath. There was a round, black hole in the floor, perhaps a meter in diameter. The plinth was too heavy for even Mohammed and Mansoor to hold long. Mansoor went first, giving a warning cry, then Mohammed, too, letting it crash back down, throwing up dust, which caught in Ibrahim’s nostrils and throat, sending him into a coughing fit.

  “Well?” asked Mansoor, slapping his hands together.

  “There’s a shaft,” said Ibrahim.

  “You want us to move the plinth?” asked Mohammed.

  “Is that possible?”

  “I’ll need some help and some more equipment, but yes.”

  Ibrahim felt all eyes expectantly upon him, but still he hesitated. Nicolas had promised twenty thousand dollars, but they’d received only half so far, the rest due upon satisfactory completion. Katerina had laid great emphasis on the word “satisfactory,” making it abundantly clear that failure to report a find like this would be considered highly unsatisfactory. And it wasn’t as if he could keep it secret, not now that Elena knew. He had a sudden mental image of Mohammed’s daughter, her life hanging by a thread. “Give me a moment,” he said. “I need to make a call.” He beckoned Elena to follow him up the stairwell, then called the Dragoumis Group, clamping a hand over his ear to shut out the din of the building works. Tinny folk music played as he waited to be connected. He rubbed the bridge of his nose fretfully.

  The music stopped abruptly. “Yes? This is Nicolas.”

  “It’s Ibrahim. From Alexandria. You said to call if we found anything.”

  “And?”

  “There’s something beneath the Macedonian tomb. Perhaps a shaft.”

  “A shaft?” Ibrahim could hear the excitement in Nicolas’s voice. “Where does it lead?”

  “Almost certainly nowhere. These things rarely do. But we’ll need to move the plinth to make sure. It’s just, you made it clear that you wanted to be informed at once.”

  “Quite right.”

  “I’m going to have the plinth moved now. I’ll call you back as soon as we—”

  “No,” said Nicolas emphatically. “I need to be there for this.”

  “This is an emergency excavation,” protested Ibrahim. “We don’t have time for—”

  “Tomorrow afternoon,” insisted Nicolas. “I’ll be with you by one. Do nothing before then. Understand?”

  “Yes, but really, it’s almost certainly nothing. You’ll come all this way and there’ll be nothing and—”

  “I’m going to be there,” snapped Nicolas. “That’s final. In the meantime, no one goes in there. I want guards. I want a steel gate.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Just do it. Send Katerina the bill. And I want to speak to Elena. Is she there?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Put her on.”

  Ibrahim shrugged helplessly. “He wants to speak to you.” She nodded and took his phone and walked off a little distance, making a wall of her back so that she couldn’t be overheard.

  NICOLAS PUT DOWN THE PHONE and sat back in his chair, breathing a little heavily. Well, that was a phone call. Elena had been certain she recognized Daniel Knox! And on his site, too! At this most sensitive of times. He stood and walked to his window, rubbing his lower back hard with his hands, which had suddenly become unaccountably stiff.

  His office door opened. Katerina came in with a stack of papers. She smiled when she saw him working his spine. “What’s the matter?” she joked. “Have you heard from Daniel Knox or something?” He gave her a look that would have peeled onions. “Oh!” she said, putting the papers down on his desk and quickly withdrawing.

  Nicolas sat back down. Few people had ever managed to get under his skin like Knox had. For six weeks, ten years ago, the man had made a series of outrageous slanders against his father and his company, and they’d all stood around and done . . . precisely nothing. His father had granted the man immunity, and his father’s word was law; but Nicolas still burned with the humiliation. He rocked forward and buzzed Katerina. “I’m sorry, sir,” she blurted out before he could speak. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Forget about it,” he said curtly. “I need to be in Alexandria tomorrow afternoon. Is our plane free?”

  “I believe so. I’ll check.”

  “Thank you. And that Egyptian man we bought those papyri through—he arranges other kinds of business, too, doesn’t he?” He didn’t need to spell out for Katerina what kinds of business he was referring to.

  “Mr. Mounim? Yes.”

  “Good. Get me his number, please. I have a job for him.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  IBRAHIM GATHERED HIS TOP TEAM in the rotunda to announce their sponsor’s visit. He tried to sound enthusiastic about it. He tried to make out that it had been his idea. He asked people to be available to do show-and-tells, if needed, and promised tea and coffee and cakes and a buffet lunch afterward in the museum, then reminded them all subtly that this man was paying their wages. He suggested they make an event of it. In short, he did everything he could to spin it into a good thing. When he was done, he invited questions. No one said a word. They were archaeologists; they detested sponsors. The meeting broke up and everyone returned to work.

  IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON, and Hosni was beginning to regret saying yes to Nessim’s offer of a job looking for some fugitive Westerner. He’d forgotten how boring surveillance work could be.

  He was half asleep in the driver’s seat of his battered green Citroën when the black-and-chrome chopper pulled up outside the apartment block, two men riding on it. The driver was in jeans, a white T-shirt, and a leather jacket; the pillion passenger in pale cotton trousers, a blue sweatshirt, and a red crash helmet, which he removed to talk to the driver. Hosni grabbed his photograph of Knox, but he couldn’t tell for sure at such a distance, not from such a small photograph. The two men shook hands. The passenger went inside while the driver turned in a tight circle and roared off. Hosni counted floors. Augustin Pascal lived on the sixth. About twenty seconds later, through his field glasses, he saw the balcony doors open and the pillion passenger step out, stretching his arms wide. Hosni fumbled for his cell phone, then speed-dialed Nessim’s number.

  “Yes?” asked Nessim.

  “It’s Hosni, boss. I think I’ve found him.”

  Nessim sucked in breath eagerly. “You’re sure?”

  “Not one hundred percent,” said Hosni, who knew Nessim too well to give false hope. “I’ve only got this photograph. But yes, I’m pretty sure.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Alexandria. Augustin Pascal’s place. You know? The marine archaeologist.”

  “Good work,” said Nessim. “Don’t lose him. And don’t let him know you’re onto him. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”

  ELENA KOLOKTRONIS had no appetite to drive back to her Delta excavation for the night, just to come back to Alexandria first thing in the morning, so she’d booked herself a room in the famous Cecil Hotel. It was only a ten minutes’ walk from Gaille’s fleabag, but in every other way it was a different world. She could scarcely waste precious excavation funds pampering a mere languages expert, after all, but for herself it was different. She was here as the senior representative of the Macedonian Archaeological Foundation. She owed it to the dignity of that institution to travel in a certain style.

  She spent the early evening catching up on her paperwork. It was extraordinary how bureaucratic running an excavation in Egypt could be. She was beginning to weary of it when she heard a knock on her door. “Come in,” she said. It opened and closed behind her. She finished adding up a column of figures, then half turned in her chair to see, with a disturbing little thrill, the Frenchman from the necropolis standing there in his jeans and leather jacket. “What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded.

  Augustin walked to her window as though he owned the place. He pulled back a curtain to gaze out over the harbor. “Very nice,” he nodde
d. “All I have is other people’s laundry.”

  “I asked you a question.”

  He turned his back on the window and leaned against her air-conditioner. “I’ve been thinking about you,” he said.

  “What!”

  “Yes. Just like you’ve been thinking about me.”

  “I assure you,” she said, “I haven’t given you a moment’s thought.”

  “Is that right?” he mocked.

  “Yes,” said Elena. “That’s right.” But something trembled in her voice, and Augustin’s insolent smile grew even broader. Elena scowled. She was an attractive, successful, and wealthy woman, well accustomed to being hit on by womanizers like this. She normally dealt with them without even thinking, by deploying a scornful electric flytrap of a glare that incinerated their interest so efficiently that she didn’t even notice anymore the sharp spark of death as these little flies tumbled to the floor. But when she now threw this glare at Augustin, there was no spark, and he didn’t fall. He simply absorbed it with that offensive smirk of his and carried on staring at her. “Please leave,” she said. “I have work.”

  But he didn’t leave. He just stood there, his back to the window. “I’ve booked a table,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to hurry you, but—”

  “If you don’t leave,” she said coldly, “I’ll call security.”

  He nodded. “You must, of course, do whatever you think best.”

  She felt flutters in her stomach as she pulled the phone toward her. It was one of those old analogs. She dialed the first number, expecting that would be enough for him. But he made no move. He just stood there with that same damned conceited smile on his face. The dial made that low metallic purr as it returned to its starting position. She dialed the second number. The handset felt cool against her cheek. She put her finger in the hole to dial the third number, but then her arm just seemed to die on her, as though all her muscles had atrophied at once.

  He walked across and plucked the handset from her, resting it back in its cradle. “You’ll want to freshen up,” he said. “I’ll be downstairs.”

  “WE’VE FOUND HIM,” said Nessim.

  There was a moment’s silence on the other end of the phone. After so many disappointments, Hassan seemed rather thrown. “Are you sure?”

  “Hosni spotted him,” said Nessim. “He’s staying in a friend’s apartment. I drove up here as soon as I got the call. He came out fifteen minutes ago, not a care in the world. He must think we’ve stopped looking. But it’s him, all right.”

  “Where’s he now?”

  “In a taxi. Heading towards Ramla.”

  “You’re following?”

  “Of course. You want him picked up?”

  That silence again. Then, “Listen to me: this is what I want.”

  KNOX WAS SURPRISED and gratified by the warmth with which Gaille greeted him that evening. “Perfect timing,” she enthused. “Ibrahim’s asked me to do a show-and-tell on the antechamber paintings tomorrow. I need a victim to practice on.” She led him back to her room, defying the toxic glare of her concierge. Her balcony doors were open to a cacophony on the street below: youngsters talking and laughing excitedly in anticipation of their evening, a distant tram clanking on its rails like an overworked kitchen. Her laptop was open on her desk, her screen saver painting weird patterns on the monitor. She nudged her mouse, and a colorful wall painting of two men sprang up.

  He leaned in, frowning. “What the hell? Is this from the site?”

  “The side walls in the antechamber.”

  “But… they’re just plaster. How did you get them to look like this?”

  She grinned with pleasure. “Your friend Augustin. He told me to use water. Lots of water. Not quite as much as you pumped in this morning, maybe, but . . .”

  He laughed and softly smacked her shoulder in reproach, triggering an unexpected spark of contact that gave them both a little jolt. “You’ve done a great job,” he said, pulling himself together. “It looks fantastic.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You know who these guys are?”

  “The one on the left is Akylos. The occupant of the tomb.”

  Knox frowned. The name Akylos was strangely familiar. But why wouldn’t it be? It had been common enough among Greeks. “And the other?” he asked.

  “Apolles or Apelles of Cos.”

  “Apelles of Cos?” asked Knox incredulously. “You don’t mean the painter?”

  “Is that who he is?”

  Knox nodded. “Alexander the Great’s favorite. Wouldn’t have his portrait made by any other artist. He often dropped by his studio to bore everyone silly with his views on art, until finally Apelles told him to shut up, as even the boys grinding the colors were making fun of him.”

  Gaille laughed. “That took some courage.”

  “Alexander liked people with a bit of brass. Besides, Apelles knew how to flatter as well as mock. He painted Alexander with a bolt of lightning in his hand, just like Zeus. Where is this? Does it say?”

  “Ephesus, as far as I can make out, but you can see the lacunae for yourself.”

  “It would make sense,” said Knox. “Alexander went there after his first victory over the Persians.” He reached past her, closed the file, and brought up another: soldiers wading through water. “Perga,” he said. He glanced at her. “You know about this?”

  “No.”

  “It’s on the Turkish coast, opposite Rhodes. If you want to head south from there, you can hike over the hills, which is hard work, or you can go along the coast. Trouble is, you can only manage this route when a northerly is blowing, because it pushes the sea back far enough for you to get through. There was a southerly when Alexander set out, but you know Alexander—he just kept on going, and the wind switched just in time, lasting just long enough for him and his men to get through. Some people say that it was the seed for the story of Moses parting the Red Sea. Alexander passed through Palestine shortly afterwards, after all, while the Bible was still a work in progress.”

  Gaille pulled a face. “That’s a little fanciful, isn’t it?”

  “You shouldn’t underestimate the impact of Greek culture on the Jews,” said Knox. “They wouldn’t have been human if they hadn’t been a little dazzled by Alexander.” Many Jews had tried to assimilate, but it hadn’t been easy, not least because a centerpiece of Greek social life had been the gymnasium, and “gymnos” was Greek for naked, so everything, by definition, had been on show. The Greeks had prized the foreskin as a fine piece of divine design and had considered circumcision barbaric. Many Jews had therefore tried to reverse the mohel’s work by cutting free the skin around the base of their glans or by hanging metal weights from what little they had.

  “I don’t mean fanciful like that,” said Gaille. “I’m only saying that bodies of water miraculously drying up to enable the hero to get through aren’t exactly unknown in ancient myth. Nor are floods sent to destroy enemies. If I had to put my money on a historical precursor, I’d bet on King Sargon.”

  “The Akkadian?”

  Gaille nodded. “A thousand years before Moses, two thousand before Alexander. There’s a source describing how the Tigris and the Euphrates dried up for him. And he already has an established point of similarity with Moses.”

  Knox frowned. “How do you mean?”

  “His mother put him in a basket of rushes and set him on the river,” said Gaille. “Just like with Moses. He was found by a man called Akki and raised as his son. Mind you, changelings were a common enough motif. It gave the poets a way to show a kind of cosmic justice at work. Take Oedipus, left out by his father to die from exposure, only to return to kill him.”

  Knox nodded. “It’s amazing how the same stories keep cropping up again and again across the entire Eastern Mediterranean.”

  “Not that amazing,” replied Gaille. “It was a massive trading block, after all, and merchants have always loved trading tall tales.”

  “And the region was infested by
minstrels, of course. And you know what minstrels have always been famous for.”

  “Wandering,” grinned Gaille, glancing up and around. Their eyes met and held for a moment, and Knox felt unsettling flutters in his chest. It had been too long since he’d had a woman to share his life and passions with, not just his bed. Far too long. He turned in mild confusion back to the screen. “So this is a map of Alexander’s campaigns?” he asked.

  “Not exactly,” said Gaille, a little flustered herself. “Of Akylos’s life. The two just happen to be the same.” Without looking his way, she brought up another picture: a walled city surrounded by water being menaced by an outsize satyr, an anthropomorphic Greek god, part man, part goat. “This one has me puzzled. I thought it might be Tyre, looking at the walls and water, but—”

  “It’s Tyre, all right,” said Knox.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Tyre was famously impregnable,” he told her. “Even Alexander had problems with it. One night during his siege he dreamed that a satyr was mocking him. He chased and chased it, but it kept eluding him, until finally he caught it and woke up. His seers interpreted it by pointing out that ‘satyros’ was made up of two words, ‘sa’ and ‘Tyros,’ meaning ‘yours’ and ‘Tyre.’ Tyre will be yours. It’ll just take time and effort. And so it proved.”

  “Unhappily for the inhabitants.”

  “He spared everyone who took sanctuary in temples.”

  “Yes,” said Gaille tightly. “But he slaughtered two thousand of their fellow citizens by nailing them to crosses.”

  “Maybe.”

  “There’s no maybe about it. Read your sources.”

  “The Macedonians often crucified criminals after they were dead,” replied Knox calmly. “Like the British hanging them on gibbets. To discourage others.”